Mercy
by beehoon
Summary: NWN2 OC: Bishop questions the KC's actions after the Trial by Combat.


_A/N: This is a very brief fic based on a sudden epiphany I had sometime ago:p I hope that you'll enjoy reading, and see why I just had to write this. Constructive criticism and any thoughts on this would be greatly appreciated!_

I woke with my mouth tasting like wet wolf—well, not like I actually knew what _that _tasted like, but it was a metaphor. Yes, said my internal monologue, a metaphor.

The Flagon was relatively dark, which was to say that there were only a few small candles scattered through the corridors. Everyone was sleeping off various stages of drunkenness, which accounted for the blessed quiet. I made my way to the common room gingerly, every nerve ending earnestly reminding me that getting into close combat with berserkers was bad for me.

I had to stand on my tiptoes and stretch to reach the few clean mugs left on the shelf. Even then, my fingertips were barely brushing against the nearest mug's handle. With an exquisite clumsiness which was honed by both talent and hard work, I knocked it over but mercifully, it didn't roll off the shelf.

Somewhere in the gloom, someone drew a sword and rasped, "Who's there?"

"Put the damned sword down, Bishop."

"Oh. It's you." A trifle unsteadily, he sheathed the sword and lay down again.

"How drunk are you anyway?" There was no reply, so I filled my mug and drained it, the coolness spreading through my chest. My head felt like someone was trying to pry the skull and brain apart, and my throat indicated that it wouldn't mind if anything I ate or drank came back up. Stupid migraine, it just had to pick tonight. Every inch of my body was in agony as it was, without the migraine coming along and adding spadefuls of more misery.

I jumped a little when he said suddenly, "Drunker than I've been in a long time."

"Want some ale purgative?"

He snorted to show exactly what a dumb idea that was, and to say that only wimps needed that.

"The fun part of being drunk is obviously over, and the miserable part is coming soon," I pointed out.

The ranger grunted. He really was quite eloquent.

I refilled the mug and retrieved the purgative from behind the bar. Uncle Duncan had run through most of his supply within the past week, but I poured the remaining powder into the water and handed the mug to Bishop. He drank it down in one shot, and I took the mug from him and went to rinse it. It was a little pointless, given the fact that dozens of mugs, plates, bowls and assorted cutlery were strewn wildly around the room, but father would have disapproved if I had not.

Warm fingers closed around my shoulder, and began probing gently. "How's it?" he asked gruffly.

I hissed a little when he pressed hard on a tender spot. He squeezed the shoulder gently—in apology, perhaps—and his hand slid upwards slowly until he was fingering the nape of my neck. His lips brushed against my ear, light as a butterfly's wings, while his other hand which had been on my waist (and when did that happen?) ventured forward onto my abdomen. I decided this was _quite_ enough, and pulled away.

He was looking at me with a calm insolence, eyebrows slightly raised. I hoped that he hadn't heard the hitch in my breath while he had been acting…dodgy. I forced a smile and turned to beat a hasty retreat to my room when he said, "Why didn't you kill him?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you kill Lorne Starling" he said bluntly.

And it was a good question too—Lorne would have killed me without a second thought. Not to mention that he cheated, and it nearly worked. I shuddered at the memory of his iron grip tightening around my neck; ten more seconds and he would have snapped it.

Was it because something in him still reminded me of Bevil? Bevil always spoke of him with that adulation unique to younger brothers. _Strong as a frost giant, and nearly as tall too! _Or Aunt Retta? He had her eyes, slightly downturned at the corners in a prediction of a lifetime of grief.

How could I kill him? To spare a life is easier than taking one. Yet my mind cruelly noted that letting him live was probably the worse thing to do. And he had begged for death, those sad eyes pleading wordlessly. I was afraid and I threw down my sword and I walked away…

I was giving him a chance to change, wasn't I?

"You should have killed him. What makes you think that sparing him was the _kind_ thing to do? Luskans are not as _merciful_ as you are." Bishop's eyes were hard.

"What the hell do you care? Since when were you so concerned about his welfare?"

"You're not as good a person as you think you are. That's all."

I snapped, "Shut up." I fled to my bedroom, slamming the door and pulling the covers over my head. _What if he was right?_

***

I stirred at the thunder of hoofs past my window. Pulling on my cloak, I ran to the common room, dread choking me. I was sliding the bolt off when a gauntleted fist pounded on the door. It swung open to reveal Nevalle, hair damp with the grey morning rain.

"It's Lorne Starling. They found his body in Blacklake. What was left of it."

No.

Please, no.


End file.
